


nothing but my heart remains

by sophthebi



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Brainwashing, But Not Really Porn, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Interrogation, Love/Hate, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Sad with a Happy Ending, Smut, Unintentional Redemption, Unrequited Hate, but also not hate because Bell doesn't actually hate Adler, cause i can't write good porn, sort of hades and persephone vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28589034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophthebi/pseuds/sophthebi
Summary: Bell survived March 15, 1981, with nothing but revenge on mind and no hope of remembering who she used to be.She goes after Adler, believing the only way to move on is to kill the man that killed her.
Relationships: Russell Adler/Bell, Russell Adler/Reader, Russell Adler/fem!Bell
Comments: 16
Kudos: 72





	nothing but my heart remains

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little angsty, revenge, hate sex fic for Adler x Fem!Bell, there is strong language and violence in this, I put a warning just in case. I don't think it's too bad (as I'm not good at writing in depth violence, I'm not that talented lol) but yeah, just keep it in mind, this is a darker adler fic compared to the other two I've done. 
> 
> I'm also still working on the third and last chapter for "see you around, kid" I'm kind of struggling with it though XD But i'll get there!
> 
> Hope everyone is safe and well, and continuing to be Adler simps!
> 
> (quick note, title is inspired by the song "when you inhale, I fill your lungs" by Crywolf. It's a short and beautiful song)

**{March 20, 1981}**

_Damaged goods._

_Only a grave can cure a hunchback._

_It was never personal -_

**The silence of a caught sob deafened the old room.** Sweat from a bad dream, and freezing Arctic wind slithering in through like a venomous snake had you fighting the desire to both rip the blanket from your body and snuggle into it closer. 

_Bad dream._

More than a bad dream. It was a _memory_ , so near and present. Bruise large and blue and purple, black almost visible even in the dimness, painting the entirety of your left shoulder. 

Bad shot.

Intentional or not… _He’d regret it –_

The window slammed into the sill, knuckles aching and skin pulling over bone, fists clenched to the point they’d break. To the point _you’d break_ … 

Tears threatened to spill, they did, they tried at least, and you wanted it _dearly_. Cry, damn it, cry, _sob and scream_. But your body wouldn’t allow it. 

And it hurt, hurt so much the cycle would begin again, and you would want to cry more. Salt of sweat drowned your lips and tongue, not of tears and it hurt. The wound in your chest hurt, your head hurt, your heart hurt. 

A dry whimper fell, purposefully and so insincere. “Please, let me cry.” 

It would not give in, stubborn as your dreams and nightmares, as stuck in the earth as mountains and rock. You took to looking out into the maritime town. _Kem_ , you recall being told. You could have visited in the past but had no memory of it. 

That brought an ache into your throat, lips trembling. Fists releasing and free of strain, shaking in the moonlight, breath heavy. 

**We have a job to do.**

A growl came from your throat, a vision of blood and gunfire and needles and scent of chemicals. A crack emanated through the room as your fist hit the wall.

The coming morning, you could not move your left hand, and the widowed woman who had taken you in didn’t mention either it or the dark circles that you so badly felt beneath your eyes as she tended to your wound. She knew enough to not ask questions. 

Her speaking mindlessly calmed you, her Russian so pleasant to hear and somehow vanquishing all thoughts of – of …

“Where will you go? You’ve no belongings.” 

You smiled, shaking your head as if that was the least of your worries, which was true in a sense, “I’ll be alright.” Though another truth you buried deep within, was that you didn’t know if you would be alright… _Maybe you wouldn’t_. 

Adler had left you on that cliff with nothing, whether he knew you would live or not, he took your equipment, whatever documentation you had, and whatever security was keeping you existing. 

You, whoever you really were, did not exist any longer. Neither did Bell… but it was the only name you knew. 

“I hope so. And I hope whoever did this to you doesn’t find you,” she said, repulsed by your wounds. Not knowing you may have inflicted just as many on others, nor that you may have deserved everything you got. But he would pay … _Adler would pay_. He should be the one hoping you never meet again. 

**{April 12, 1981}**

Passing through Finland and Sweden was an easier task than expected. Hitchhiking got you out of Russia further and quieter than it would have, had you used conventional travel, and with the money the widowed Russian spared, it was a simple ferry ride to Germany. No suspicions, just a wayward traveler, maybe a little worse for wear but no sign of trouble. 

You were only looking for one person… Not the world, not the West, not Perseus, not Hudson, not Sims, Lazar, Woods, Mason or the late Park. Just him … _Russell Adler_. 

The first place you started was safehouse E9 in West Berlin. Memory served well, and to shit with being caught, you openly walked into it, not caring if someone waited, CIA or otherwise, Perseus agents ready to detain and punish you or whoever didn’t want you alive. You didn’t care, hyper focused on finding a lead, small or big. 

It was abandoned, your boots echoing throughout like a haunting. Like the past had returned and you could hear Lazar flirting with Park, Hudson on the phone, Sims tinkering with something, Mason and Woods joking around … like you could feel _his stare_.

Maybe you were being watched, but it was empty. No van, no equipment, no evidence board, darkroom disburdened, no computer, no projector. Just you, standing in the middle of a quiet building. 

You scoured around, looking through draws, opening previously locked doors. Dust accumulated in the time it hadn’t been used. Wonder when it would be used next? Would they ever return? It didn’t matter, nothing mattered.

What you hadn’t expected was a leather-bound book hidden under a box. A journal, _your journal_. It was neatly placed, not accidental. Fingers carefully brushed lingering dust from it, flickering through the yellowing pages, your handwriting immediately recognizable. Speaking of nightmares, doubts and fears of the missions you were tasked with. The confusion you had even then. 

Sketches of dreams, of the dossiers and files you decrypted, of the team, their faces all throughout the pages, mostly his... Tv screens with war, Vietnam and false memories. There was Russian in it too, you didn’t remember writing the language in your journal. It had no sense to it, random dribbles of words that made no hidden combination, practically just the alphabet. There was nothing to decrypt in it. But you tucked it away in your jacket for safe keeping anyway, a comfort to have in a new world of uncertainty and pain.

Working with the team … in due time you had grown close to everyone, a little distant than others yes, shy and unsure of yourself, but you felt part of it all. 

_Just a cur used to its advantage_. 

A lost dog, wild and unkempt, drugged and sedated when not needed. As if Adler shooting you on that cliff triggered a flood gate of painful memories, trauma that your brain was suppressing, you could see it, feel the arms carrying you to a place dark and cold… 

Lonely, you slept without dream. Just darkness, a temporary death that you’d wake from when needed. 

**We had a job to do**. 

Like a punch to the gut, the programming made its presence known. You hunched over a table, nails shrieking scratches into the metal. Teeth gritted till they could crack into powder. 

Calloused hands on your throat, on your jaw. Needles stabbing into you. Gagging on water. Eyes forced open, war sounds on the highest volume, replayed over and over. Scripts being read like a playwright directing his actors. 

**“Bell.”**

It grew cold and dark, body on the ground, falling. 

You woke that evening to the same empty safehouse, but still no tears. 

_Not one_.

**{April, 1981}**

After exchanging Russian currency for German, it wasn’t hard to manipulate and lie your way into a decent hotel room for a low price, a perfect negotiator, though your German was still rusty. You suspected it may have been from your past life, whatever you really did before Adler, before Perseus even. 

You bought things, not unnecessary things, but clothes, food, toiletries, medical supplies for nearly healed wounds, hunkering down in a single bedroom for rent. Jeans, boots, sweater, beanie. Enough to look like a civilian. 

Rain crashed into the glass outside, peaceful and kind to your ears opposed to silence, as you read through every newspaper from the past week, read through magazines, looking for any hidden messages. Decrypting anything you thought was there, anything to do with Americans on German soil. Any clandestine operations. 

When you weren’t reading, you were on the television, listening to the radio or outside in the city, watching and waiting. 

You knew someone would catch onto you, whether it was sooner or later, you knew deep down that Adler or Perseus would learn of your presence, of your whole _existing_ problem. 

Russell must have known you’d survive. At least doubted your death, hell, you survived a bullet to the head and chest in Turkey. _Kadivar_ , _that motherfucker_ , **if it weren’t for him** … 

You almost despised him as much as Adler. But one was dead, and the other wasn’t. 

You passed the safehouse every day, not caring for cameras or agents tracking you. _Good, know I’m here_ , you thought. You weren’t going anywhere until either Adler or you were dead. 

Sleep got worse. The longer the research went on, the more real the dreams were. Strange as it was, it pushed you to work harder, to persevere. Even stranger was the lack of nightmares involving the false Vietnam memories. 

_Just him_ , and his scars and smoke and glasses. 

Nightmares of him, seeping into waking life. In the corner of your eye, you’d see him watching from a shadowy corner. Some of the dreams were perverted, intimate violence, you knew he wasn’t that kind of monster, but you supposed it was the nature of what had happened to you. You were violated of will, and he represented that. 

Always bound, his hands grabbing at you, your thoughts and your history and your love and your laughter. Splinters of true memories spilled through from time to time in the form of gushing blood, you were a joyous person, but focused and a loner, not unlike Lazar or Mason. 

You didn’t feel any of that anymore. Numb. No tears, no smiles, no laughs, numb of passiveness, only anger and wrath and revenge remained in your system. 

But you saved it, saving it all for when you would come face to face with the destroyer of your world. 

You wouldn’t elongate whatever happened, wouldn’t torture him the way he did to you. You’d make death quick and merciful, that’s what you repeated to yourself, _don’t be like them_ … 

But really, you had no idea what you were capable of … if you had the chance, the _time_. No … It wasn’t you, you didn’t want to inflict pain, you wanted to end it. 

A bullet to the head would suffice. A knife to the chest. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t sit him down and yell at the top of your lungs the agony he had caused, the agony he took the face of before ending it. But it would be over, and life could move on, whatever that life would be. _If there was any left to remain_. 

No, it didn’t matter what happened after. 

You continued your search for leads. Visiting libraries, stalking close to the intelligence agency headquarters, planning how you’d sneak into it. You’d put coded messages in stories that you gave to newspapers and observe for a response.

Doing whatever you could, whether that was finding information yourself or making enough noise to lead him to you.

The idea of him not taking the bait planted its seed in your head, the idea that he didn’t care enough to find you, the idea that if he saw you, he’d smile and say simply, “What a pleasant surprise, Bell.” 

_It was nothing personal._

**{May 21, 1981}**

Coming home - the hotel room being the one thing closest to a home - from the pub, barely sober and wanting for conversation, you hadn’t expected a hit to the back of the head and being thrown into one the shitty chairs. 

Vision blurred as it was, the silhouette of a man, athletic and intimidating even sitting down, a hood over his head and mask like some type of childhood bogeyman switched back and forth between nightmare and reality, made you wonder if you’d lost your mind. Dressed in all black, tattoos up and down his arms.

 _You’d pissed someone off_.

Dog tags, country or military you couldn’t tell hung from his neck as trophy. 

“Perseus was right. You do have a _pretty little face_.” Regardless of the mention of Perseus, his accent was so thick you knew he was Russian right away. And mention of Perseus or not, the way he looked told you he wasn’t KGB, or at least not anymore.

Fear spiked in you like a cold wind, body squirming, whimpering as the man reached over and grasped your face in his gloved hand, turning it back and forth. “No wonder they fixed you up. A sight for sore eyes. Barely a scar left,” he hissed, fingers grazing where the bullet had gone through, the one Kadivar had shot into you, near to your nose and eye. 

He was right, the CIA fixed you up, you never would have assumed you’d been shot in the head, looking in mirrors never hinted at it. 

“But now, all you are is a bitch left out for the vultures.” You knew what he meant, just a dog with an expiry date that’d been used up. 

“Are you here to kill me?” You asked, fear obvious in your voice, you chose to speak in your mother tongue, maybe a way of gaining sympathy, if the man had any. He laughed, at all of it, releasing your face like he touched something polluted. 

“Perseus sent me here to kill you, yes. But I’m not sure I want to do that yet.” 

You pulled yourself up from a slouch, eyes wide and ready for whatever deal he was going to make. 

The way moonlight scattered in through your open window glinted in the milkiness of one of his eyes, the left. Blind, a wound like someone stabbed into it as some type of warning, a purposeful brand rather than in the midst of a fight. “Russell Adler. Your handler in Project MKUltra and the clandestine operation earlier this year.” _His voice grew darker_ , nails digging into the arms of his chair, “I want to find and kill him. And I know we share that goal-”

“-I’m not going to help you.” You interrupted without thought, he tilted his head. Shocked by your lack of self-preservation. “He’s mine and mine alone. And I don’t serve mass murders anymore,” you whispered. 

You half-expected him to get up and grab your face again, threaten to make it less _pretty_ , but instead he laughed, not with humor, but _pity_ , as if he knew something you didn’t. 

“Perseus also said you were too naïve for your own good, that if anyone were to betray him, it’d be you, why he kept you so close” he said, matter of factly, observing for any emotion, he must have seen a lot that you didn’t know you were showing, still so numb, “unintentional, it may have been, but that American has you wrapped around his finger still-”

“-he did. But not anymore, I’m going to kill him and you’re not getting in my way.” 

He stood from his chair, circling your smaller form. There were others in the room, they stuck to the shadows, like décor without eyes. But you knew they were listening, watching. 

“Revenge, you don’t seek revenge.” He come up behind you, hand around your neck and pulling your head back, fingers stranding through your hair, almost _affectionately_ , admiring the femininity of it. “You ache for him. I see it in your eyes. Did he fuck you?” 

You froze; teeth snapped together. “He took my life away. Didn’t do anything other than make me believe I was his friend and then try and put me down”

He pulled your hair harder. “He didn’t fuck you. But you wanted him to.”

You remained silent.

“Poor broken little girl. Perseus said you’d be nothing but a loose end to tie. Nothing but _damaged goods_ -”

“Motherfucker! I’m going to kill you!” You rocked in the chair, slamming your feet into the ground to launch yourself up, but his arms were on you, stronger than you could ever possibly be, trapping you into it. 

“You won’t kill him. You’re his dog now. His dog that he put down, only the universe had something else planned.” The man gestured to his soldiers, they walked out of your line of sight, outside of the hotel room. “I’m not going to kill you. You’re no problem to me or my mission. You’ll find him. Russell Adler. And you’ll falter. And he will put you to sleep for good … or … he won’t. Might brainwash you into thinking you’re his wife. You’d make a good wife for him.” 

You shouted incoherently for him to leave, to die, to fuck off. Curse words in both Russian and English pouring from your mouth as he turned his back on you and walked out, the door slamming shut. A folder with fake identification and cash sit on the table, a gift from him to you. 

_A taunt more like_ , you had everything you needed, but even then, you’d fail. 

_Damaged goods_.

 _Only a grave can cure a hunchback_.

**{June 10, 1981}**

You’d been in Washington for a week. The money and passport left by who you now knew as _Stitch_ , was sufficient enough for you to get through border security undetected, with the extra help of a suitcase full with mundane items, makeup, clothes both formal and casual, lingerie, pepper spray, common things a woman would take with her on solo travels.

Your identity, a German tourist, the accent was easy to imitate till outside the airport. Your ‘pretty little’ face didn’t hurt either. The innocent, naïve foreigner. 

Langley was your target, not what was within, but what would come out. If you were lucky, Adler was back at home base, with no leads and all loose ends met, _or so he thought_.

Morning and evening, early and late, dawn and dusk, you’d shadow the American headquarters, unassuming. Camera in hand like a good little tourist. It took a few days before anything promising occurred. 

Dressed in a summer dress and thigh-high boots, resting on a bench chair, you spotted a Pontiac Bonneville, late sixties edition. There was always something sixties about Adler, maybe his hair. The car, intuition told you to pay attention, close attention. You trailed it with keen eyes as it parked not far from the central intelligence building. 

_It was never personal_.

 _We have a job to do_.

 **Bell**.

No vision of Vietnam. Of the helicopter crash. Your vision was red, yes, but it was all him, _Russell Adler. Russell Adler. Russell Adler._

A man just over 6 foot stepping out of the car, in a short-sleeved polo shirt, khaki pants and formal shoes. Hair groomed; beard cleanly shaved. Shades. 

It was him, and your breath hitched in your throat. 

Anger or fear or sadness, your body had no pattern to follow, no clue how to react to the man walking casually into the building. Without a thought, without a clue to your eyes on him. You thought you’d be filled with wrath, have to stop yourself from making your way over to him and breaking his neck. Hands clenched, heart beat uncontrollable, chest heaving.

 _Shaking, cold sweat, sharp metal in your eye, in your veins_. 

Not one **tear**. 

Not one **sob**. 

Not one **smile**. 

He was right there in front of you. 

**There was no going back**. 

You went back to your rental car, drove it closer to where his was parked. Staked out for how many hours, you didn’t take count of, watching and waiting for him to leave the building.

 _Hands around his neck, nails digging into skin, breaking through it. Ripping his hair, punching him in the scars, slicing his ne_ \- … you tried to imagine it, but it gave no pleasure, only disgust. 

How were you going to do it? With his own gun, a kitchen knife? You’d never thought so much about death before, not someone else’s, you never considered hurting someone else without need. 

But there was a need to this, right? There had to be, _you weren’t_ … 

It was near evening, the sun sinking into the sky slowly as it does in the hot months. Adler left the entrance of the headquarters, grimace on his pretty little face. 

You bent down into the glovebox as he reached his car, pretending to scavenge through emptiness. Whether he noticed or felt suspicion, you wouldn’t know, were too afraid to look up in the case that your eyes met. The engine started, wheels on road sounded quietly, music playing from his radio. That stupid song, his favourite song, the Stroke by Billy Squier. 

You started up your car when it was a safe enough distance, trailing him to wherever fate decided. His home, a hotel, a bar, it didn’t matter, you’d find a way to get to him and you would get your revenge, you’d show him how he’d underestimated you. 

That you _weren’t_ his dog. 

Not the softness of his hair, nor the plumpness of his mouth could steer you from it. Not the scent of him, not the way his scars intensified if he grimaced or smiled, how rare it was. 

Nor the way he made you feel safe, was the only person you felt you could close your eyes around in that safehouse the first day you arrived… 

_It was never personal_.

 **It was to you**.

Careful of getting too close, or too far, of going too fast or too slow, you followed him through Washington. It was a good thirty minutes before any sign of him reaching his destination reared its head. He turned a corner, into a pleasant suburban street. Intuition told you this was it, and you pulled into the street before it, getting out to walk the rest of the way. 

Adrenaline pumped through you, boot heels although not tall, getting harder and harder to walk in, dizzy and unwell. Cold and hot, frozen within and boiling on the outside, lips trembling. 

One of the smaller homes, painted like the rest of them, the average American house, had his Pontiac parked out front on the driveway. 

This was really it… Stitch’s words tore their way into your conscious mind. _You’ll falter. He’ll put you to sleep for good … or make you his wife_. 

You had no time to spare, no time to pause and shiver at the thought. The house looked fit to be a family home, a home for a married couple. Almost like you were tempting fate… you never considered the thought that he might be married… what if there’s someone else in there, what if he has children … 

That time you did falter, knuckles going to rip out from under your skin.

 **No**. 

You had to keep going, there was no turning back. 

Silence emanated from within the house, there were cameras at the front door, but you didn’t care, you made your way to it and stood, palm on its wooden surface. The doorknob was begging to be twisted, locked or not. 

No one was out on the street. You stole two bobby pins from your hair and began picking the lock. The click of the locks release brought a skip of beat to your heart. 

_So on edge_. Your reflexes … your muscles, were you really capable of taking this man down, in this state of mind?

The door creaked open. 

It looked … _nice_. From what you could see, everything was orderly and clean. It smelt of smoke and coffee and papers. From afar, you could see a small dining table with newspapers, documents, an ashtray and empty mugs.

There was noise from upstairs, things being put away or taken out. Clicking the door shut behind you, turning the key to lock it, you wandered further in, hesitant of any noise you could possibly make, with the floor, your breathing. 

There were no paintings or photos hung up, there were some plants, some souvenirs from travel but nothing else. The kitchen was decent and upkept, only a few unclean dishes. 

_He really had the simple, perfect little life here_ … 

Envy and betrayal filled you to the brim, pushing you further into the dark state of mind you’d been in ever since Solovetsky. 

He made you this way. _And he’ll regret doing so_. 

On the table were letters, opened and unopened, there were about twenty cigarettes in the ashtray and all the documents were face down. You had no desire to look through it, knowing it’d be about Perseus or something related. 

You should have been terrified as the stairs creaked with heavy steps, but you felt a calm, a calm before the storm, your body preparing itself for what could go either way. You were going to give your best, however it ended, perhaps you’d both die here in this lovely house.

He’d stopped, the creaking stopped. Weight being shifted, the heaviness of his gaze on your back. 

With the courage of a thousand dreams and nightmares and wishes and prayers to be free of this pain, you turned to face him, gasping and choking on a near whimper. 

You wanted to clasp your eyes shut and cry, sleep it all away but you couldn’t go back. You had dug your grave and his. 

Russell stood at the last few steps, bare and vulnerable to you. Hair drying from a shower, torso naked, jeans with a half-done belt. Scars glistening with water. His chest had scars of their own, he was strong and lean, and you feared that you might not win this fight. 

“Bell … what a pleasant surprise.” 

You wanted to yell, of course he fucking said that, you fucking knew he would. Nails scratched into the wood of his table, his eyes following it, almost cringing. 

That’d be right, he’d be worried about his furniture and not himself.

“There’s nothing pleasant. I’m here to kill you, you know that right?” You said, flinching at his sudden movement, his taller body abandoning the stairs, he made his way opposite to you, on the other side of the table. He took notice of your shaking hands and body fighting itself to not run away. 

“Perseus send you?” 

Your brows furrowed, and for once you actually thought you might cry, he also took notice. The sadness of your face must have told him all. He didn’t express any sympathy or care. Just watched on.

“If he saw me I wouldn’t have a head anymore. There’s nowhere, no one… And it’s because of you …” your voice died out, hushed to a silence, throat burning. Adler nodded, looking you up and down, studying and observing. 

He went to open his mouth but you cut in. “And don’t you dare say it wasn’t personal. It was for me, it is for me. You destroyed every part of me that was still mine. _You should have let me die on that airstrip_.”

“If we didn’t do what we did, half of Europe would be a nuclear wasteland and the world would be at war. It’s a small price to pay-”

“-it was a small price for you to pay! The world might as well have ended for me.” Adler was cautious of you, not afraid, but ready to act if need be, and it hurt. He couldn’t even think of you as a threat, you were _nothing_ … Ready to be crushed under his boot. “There could have been another way.”

“You and I both know there wasn’t any other choice. Let go. Why are you here? You’re alive, isn’t that enough?” 

“No part of me is alive anymore. I can’t feel who I used to be. I can’t sleep, it’s either your memories, or the grief of the memories you took from me... And everywhere I go … I can’t stop seeing your face. You’re terrorizing me.” 

_I need it to end_. You needed him gone. And even if killing him didn’t work, you would know you tried. 

He read it in your eyes, there was no other ending to this. Your legs tensed; your gaze fell to the letter opener on the table. “Don’t worry Adler, _it was never personal_ ,” you whispered, hoping in your bones that’d be the last thing he heard. 

The letter opener was in your hand, in a reversed grip, you swung at him across the table, jumping over it and launching at his already moving body. He pivoted from your swings, aiming his fist to your head. You managed to evade it, throwing your weight into every swipe of your arm, of the makeshift knife in hand. 

You sliced his forearm, blood spurting from the fresh wound, before his larger hand was quick enough to trap yours in a deathly grip, pulling you close to him. The both of you making inhuman noise, _growls_ and _huffs_ of air, mingling breaths, _you were so close_ , chest pressed to his naked one as you headbutted him, the force of it emanating a crack and breaking the two of you apart and stealing away the _warmth_ of him.

He stumbled back; you fell completely, losing grip of the letter opener, blood dripping into your eyes from your forehead, the liquid wet and burning your vision, you crawled to where the weapon had been thrown, but hands grasped at your ankles, pulling you away, and twisting your body so you were on your back again.

Adler was above you, thighs either side of your waist and hands on your throat. A shriek ripped from your lungs before he began strangling the air out of you. Face going red, veins popping out, you wheezed silence, scratching and slapping at his face to no use. 

He was so focused, heaving and growling as he tightened and tightened his grip on your throat, pushing into your body.

Fractured memories of watching him concentrate at the safehouse, being enamored with his face, thinking he was the _most beautiful man_ …

 _You were dying_. Legs kicking, you searched around you, for anything, catching the glint of the metal buckle of his belt. 

Abandoning his hands and face, you grabbed at his jeans, the leather belt and slid it from the bands, whacking the metal across his face with a sickening crunch, his grip lessened for the briefest moment, enough time to rip yourself from him and crawl for the knife. 

Bloodied fingers struggled to grasp at your boots.

Once you got that knife … It was over. **It had to be**. _You were begging_. All you had to was embed it in his neck, his chest, his eye.

The golden metal wet with blood, fit into your hand just before he could twist you on your back once more. You took a stab at his chest, but he caught it, caught your wrist and forced it down above your head.

Dress falling to above your hips, your legs wrapped around his waist, muscles straining to get a hold of him so you could put your weight into getting on top of him instead. 

A gasp or war cry fell from your lips as you managed to flip your body, his hand still on your wrist but the knife sinking closer and closer to his neck and vulnerable chest. His teeth were grit together and he was moaning in struggle. 

_This was it_. _Almost there_ … **Almost there**. You pushed yourself further down on top of him. 

“We have a job to do.” He yelled like it was his last hope. 

_There was a flicker of a memory_ , of needles and leather straps, of hunger and thirst, of crying yourself to sleep, of singing lullabies your parents used to sing to you, of being a child back home. Escaping into joyful parts of your brain, of laughing and smiles. Being at the top of your class, family proud. Joining the KGB. Perseus. And the dreams got quieter, the nearer the sharpness of the letter opener got to Adler. 

Wanting to be near him, safety and comfort in his presence, making jokes with Lazar, gentle praise from Park, talking to Sims about his workshop back home, listening to Mason and Woods carry on. 

The revelation that it was all set up so perfectly but felt so real, was real … You made a choice in the end, you didn’t want to be a killer, you didn’t want to be who you used to be, and Adler had taken your hand and trusted you. 

A tear fell down your cheek, but before you could drop the knife, before you could do a thing of your own will, you were on your back, the knife in his hand.

 _Only a grave can cure a hunch back_. 

Coming to terms with death was calmer than you thought.

 _He’ll put you to sleep for good_. 

But the blow never came.

Sweat and blood mingled on your skin, glazing it, hair sticking to your face and neck, chest heaving and back arched, arms sprawled above your head, legs remaining wrapped around his hips, dress pooling around your waist, stomach wet from exertion. Lips parted, gasping for air.

Hazel eyes took you in, blood and sweat glistening on his face, his own lips parted and chest and stomach heaving. Muscles of his arms twitching with anticipation. 

_You’ll falter_.

He dropped the knife, holding your gaze. His hand come to rest on your stomach, skin on skin. Feeling the pulse of your heart, feeling the air rush into your lungs, your stomach rising and falling erratically. 

“ _Russell_ …” His name left your lips like a question and demand, an apology and a warning, an ask for forgiveness and a need for something you didn’t know yet.

“Bell.” His fingers explored your abdomen, your waist, pushing and pulling, as if he were trying to soothe you. His eyes questioning, the tips of his fingers on the edge of your underwear.

Eyes wet with tears; trembling lips smiled. _Yes_.

 _Yes_. 

Blood, both yours and his slipped into your mouth like pomegranate juice, metallic and strong as he swallowed your lips. Fingers tangled in his hair, he pulled down your underwear, his own fingers delving into you. _In and out_. Other hand moving the dress above your head, pressing into your breasts. He peeled it from your sticky, sore body and touched you everywhere, lingering by the scar he left on your shoulder, leaving you to moan and cry beneath him, his nose and soft mouth in the crook of your neck, undoing his jeans with quiet rustling. 

“Stay with me. Stay here with me,” he whispered in your ear, like a lullaby. His hardness inside you, grounding his hips into yours, eating your moans and whimpers, and kissing away your tears. 

_He might make you his wife_. 

A half-breed of sob and laugh came from within you, contorting into moans. Eyes barely open, _half-lidded_ , you stared up into the ceiling as he pushed in and out of you, your body rocking, back arching higher and higher the harder he hit within you. 

“Come for me, Bell. Come.” Pulsating around his thickness, harsh grunts sounded into the world, both yours and his. 

_This wasn’t revenge, but it wasn’t you faltering_. 

_Damaged goods_. You were just damaged goods, that needed a new home. 

_Damaged goods that could feel again_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> <33


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